“We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.”

With the legandary opening of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson’s journalistic masterpiece “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” these few words seared themselves upon the collective conciousness of writers, weirdos and drug-addled freaks alike. And, with an exit as fiery as his entrance, it is related with heavy heart, that on Feb. 20, the good doctor passed away by the work of his own hand.

Some writers have tried flogging his passing as a way to get good press clips, and others have mocked/mimicked his style in lame tribute. Still others have claimed his death was a bad publicity move. What does it all mean, anyway?

For starters, “Fear and Loathing” blew minds with the sheer amount of drugged debauchery that goes on in the story. It also made Rolling Stone magazine edgier, and, aside from that, really got the ex-Flower Children realizing that things weren’t so great. After all, it was 1971. Socially and culturally speaking, a lot of things had hit the fan. To those writers, weirdos, and drug-addled freaks, Thompson’s work was a wake-up call, but especially to journalists.

Thompson reinvented journalism as it is known. Not only did he change The Rules of what acceptable forms of writing are, he changed The Rules altogether. Hell, he played a whole different Game. While most hack writers at the time were busy fumbling with their marbles and pennywhistle stories, Hunter seemingly said, in his drug-induced manner, “F— off, you pimps. I’m playing roller derby,” then proceeded to knock Spiro T. Agnew on his haunches.

Why All You Liars Who Call Yourselves Writers Need to Give Kudos to this Man:

The word “I.” Obviously, he didn’t invent the word, but he gave it new life in his works, sticking himself smack in the middle of his stories. If you’ve ever taken any writing class where the dried up prune of a professor tries to bark jive at you about being objective in your written works, you’ll know that sometimes that’s just not possible. If you’ve been stomped within an inch of your life by the Hells Angels, taken more drugs than some small-town police stations have confiscated in years, and given slimy politicians verbal pool cue beatdowns, how on earth can you be Impartial?

Mark Twain did it. H.L. Mencken did it. Thompson did it too. He nailed the ever elusive and changing American dream: freedom of expression, freedom from oppression, and success among one’s peers. While the majority of his works touch on these themes, they’re definitely not like Twain’s or Mencken’s…or maybe they are, if you filtered them through purple-haze acid filters, and injected them with healthy dose of fear and loathing.

Thus, this cross between “The Star-Spangled Banner” and an opiate sandwich brought about what one of Thompson’s friends coined, “Gonzo Journalism.” You’ve got the template here, so you can figure what the rest of the style is composed of.

Like Twain and Mencken before, Thompson was a character, even a caricature-larger than life in almost every possible way. His mumble was indecipherable and incoherent most times, due in equal parts to chemicals ingested and the short cigarette holder permanently clenched between his teeth. He was rarely seen without his white fishing hat, high-top Converse Chuck Taylors, and aviator sunglasses.

He owned peacocks, motorcycles, Fire Candy-Apple Red Shark convertibles, and ammunition stockpiles. He had a consistent disdain of yuppies who drank mimosas during Sunday afternoon brunch, and elected liars who were nothing more than elected thugs. He even ran for sheriff of Aspen under the Freak Power Party (he lost).

More often than not, there was usually an alcoholic beverage glued to his hand…or a firearm of some sort. He was a man with a penchant for Blowing Things Up, as any man with a Fortified Compound would do…in his not-so-right mind. He was a man with a desperate Need for Speed. Even in death, his survivors are trying to see if his post-mortem wish of being shot from a cannon is doable.

Thompson was iconoclastic to the core-a man who never, but never, shied away from life, a good drink, or a perfect chance to skewer deserving public figures.

I suggest a toast: A toast to the passing of America’s foremost late 20th-Century writer. Raise your glasses, bongs, or typewriters. Even you slobbering teetotalistic fools in the back! We’ll blast his sonic talisman, Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky” until our ears bleed. It’s true, this man led a savage lifestyle, but hey, it’s a savage world out there, and somebody had to keep up.